


Welcoming Committee I

by DarkShadeless



Series: Overseer Sar [16]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Misunderstandings, Oh Dear, Sar giving Timmns grey hair, of a sort, yes I know he's bald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 17:51:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkShadeless/pseuds/DarkShadeless
Summary: Overseer Sar has a few bad habits. Sometimes those have consequences.He really should have checked his mail today.





	Welcoming Committee I

**Author's Note:**

> Because you can't tell me this didn't happen at least once in some shape or form.

 

 

Sar is the last person who would claim that he’s perfect. He’s really not. His default setting is ‘grumpy’, he’s the next best thing to a droid set on pre-programmed tasks without a gallon of tea in the morning. His expertise on dealing with troubles that involve emotion pretty much comes down to ‘stab the problem’.

So, not perfect. It’s entirely possible he has a few bad habits.

One of them leads him straight into this situation, although he won’t realize that until later:

 

They’ve just come in from a training trip, one that Timmns spent the entirety of looking torn between ‘how did I instigate this horror’ and ‘it’s for the greater good’. Sar’s exhausted but in high spirits.

A whole week of watching his students learn practical application the semi-hard way while low-key gloating about getting ahead in their rivalry.

Not that he keeps score. Honest. And if he did he’d be two points up, let the Jedi chew on _that_.

Rewarding activities. Taxing, too. Someone has to make sure his little terrors don’t actually fall off a cliff, after all, and there are twenty of them. The mischief a whole group of Force sensitives in training can and will get up to defies description.

But they’re back now. For at least two days their pupils are officially not their problem and there’s a whole fresh container of assorted berry tea blends with his name on it waiting for him in his-

The doors of the elevator open and at the next intersection stands the kriffing former Emperor of Zakuul.

_Arcann._

The only question left to ask is why the base alarm isn’t blaring.

Sar breaks into a full run with a snarl, before the doors have fully parted. The man’s visible surprise has to be something he'll relish later and he will. He’s not the kind of honourable that won’t gut an _intruder_ in his _home_ if they’re stupid enough to think it will be undefended.

Sadly the Zakuulan manages to bring his saber up before Sar can draw both of his own against his unprotected stomach. Coming in low as he is that would have cut the nerf herder in two.

He doesn't bother to try and buffer that blow. They both know who the more powerful between them is but that has never stopped a Sith.

Sar takes the strike for a gift and uses the momentum to vault himself over his enemy, landing at his back and set up to kick his feet out from under him in one smooth motion. Arcann steps out of his reach, damn his short range anyhow, and falls into guard position.

It’s on.

Jar’kai ataru is an art form, especially in close quarters. Anyone claiming it flashy acrobatics has never tried to navigate a battlefield in three dimensions _with their hands full_. This is one of the worst settings for his form. But nevermind that. If Sar hadn’t mastered his own specialty he wouldn’t call himself fit to teach a gnat.

He comes in from the left, ricochets off the block to the ceiling and catapults himself down leading with a Force scream.

The corridor erupts into dust and stone splinters.

He doesn’t wait for it to clear. Who needs eyes when they have the Force?

Arcann parries every strike and Sar doesn’t pause to wonder why he is still alive when he shouldn’t be. That’s how you die.

It’s not as if the son of a wampa pulls his punches. Sar has to turn with every clash so the strength behind them won’t _shatter_ him.

He’s sent flying out of the corridor, into the command center, no walls to brace against.

No matter. There’s something _else_ here.

The Sith comes up in a roll, throws his lightsabers at his opponent and doesn’t even check to see if they’ll hit. They won’t.

He twists to the side and _reaches_.

An entire console comes lose with a squeal and soars after his blades. He’s no two steps behind.

There’s shouting he pays no attention to, some sort of commotion and _duh_. _The enemy_ is _in their base_.

The Force sings, warning and opportunity both. Sar sees it so clearly it’s hard to tell what is present and what future.

His sabers spin through the air, deflected, Arcann shifts his guard to catch the work station cum projectile.

There it is. An _opening._

Shoddy footwork or distraction, if Sar times it just right… they’ll match in short order. Only one of them has the cybernetics to compensate for _two_ limbs lost.

Oh, it will cost him his life but it’s worth it. His fellows should have less trouble killing the warlord once he’s down a leg.

If he doesn’t manage to attach a replacement on the field like _last time_.

_You kronging flarks better make this count, or I swear I’ll haunt your asses._

It’s sweet. So, so sweet to close in, go for the kill and watch Arcann see the same thing he saw only much too late. He’s committed to a downward swing with all of his considerable height. There’s something like horror on his unmasked face.

If Sar’s lucky this won’t even hurt. Not for long and not _him_ at least.

 

Or it would have, if a heartbeat past the apex of Arcann’s move the Force hadn’t closed around his whole body and _yanked_ him back.

He misses. So does his enemy.

_Ancestors slagging damn it!_

Sar rolls out of the fall, helpless rage redirected by sheer necessity. He would know that presence with his eyes closed. Timmns, _why_. You'd think there was _one person_ he can rely on. There’s shock and panic flittering through the Force but no one has made a move to intercept, except to _ruin his perfectly fine partial mou kei_.

If he survives this, he’s going to have _words_ with his Jedi.

Only he may not get to do that because when Sar pushes himself into a new attack, despite the ironclad surety that his window has closed, that fool throws himself in between him and his target.

The suicidal idiot hasn’t even drawn his _weapon_.

Sar has to use all of his skill, along with mobility painstakingly learned by years of pulling his punches so he won’t disembowel a fumbling student, to evade the obstacle he _does not want to run through_ and still stay on course.

It carries him directly into the path of Arcann’s own sequence.

Which is good. That sequence will end with a bisected Jedi.

He catches the Zakuulan’s attack on his own sabers and knows immediately that this is it. To shield Timmns, he came in wrong. He can’t compensate.

The power of the blow levers his center of gravity up and _away_.

Sar clips a railing, tears through it, and hits the wall on the other side of the room. Something inside him breaks.

Maybe several somethings, he’s not sure. He might have blacked out for a second.

What he comes back to is a green menace taking up almost the entirety of his field of vision.

Does that moron have no sense of self-preservation? “Ge’off, lemme-“

Timmns holds him down by the shoulder, _gently_ , and it’s an insult that that even works much less how much it _hurts_. Sar’s elbow buckles under his attempt to lever himself up. _Kriff. Fucking hells._

He needs to- he has to- and then the ringing in his ears dials down enough to understand more than his co-instructor’s pained expression.

“- don’t. Please, just stay down, you’ll hurt yourself. Yon-”

“’S gonna be the least of my problems, what the fuck Somminick, where, where’s,“ Arcann. Where had that bastard gone off to? They should both be frelling dead and they _would be_ in short order-

Sar catches a glimpse of pure white over Timmns shoulder.

His opponent is standing right where he left him, if his swimming head is getting trajectories right. Arcann’s watching the two of them, unmoving, lightsaber still lit. That muted horror from before hasn’t faded.

His Jedi follows his line of sight, though he’s not fool enough to lighten his hold in his distraction, more’s the pity. Slowly, he says, “Did you look at our last report on base status yet?”

If he had the breath the Sith would have snorted but he likes his lungs even when they are on strike. “We just got back. I got the short notes. _Why does that matter?_ ” Commander went on a mission. Came back mostly victorious and still alive. Vaylin sadly not dead yet. What more was there to know?

The reports are fine, it’s important to be aware of what’s going on but Sar’ll admit he has no taste for propaganda. Especially the Zakuulan kind. Or the Jedi kind. If he’s unlucky, his inbox gets both. So when there’s vids in the report queue, sometimes he lets them lie around a bit. Or skims the highlights.

Timmns closes his eyes, in his ‘I am an adult, watch me pray for patience’ kind of way. Or maybe an ‘I should have known that’ kind of way.

Hard to tell when there’s one and a half of him.

“Sar. Our Commander met Arcann on Zakuul and they came to an agreement. He’s one of ours now.”

That has to have been an auditory hallucination.

“He lead a bloody campaign across the entire galaxy and _trampled_ us. Then he left us just enough so he could squeeze us in the biggest racketeering scheme ever run by anyone who isn’t a _Hutt,_ while he nabbed our people from right under our noses whenever he pleased. Tell me you’re kidding.”

For some reason that flat recollection makes the shoulders of the object of it hunch under an invisible weight.

Sar’s more interested in the answer to his question, honestly. He’s pretty sure he won’t like it. Timmns’ has that look on his face he gets when he’s about to talk to him about something the Jedi thinks might hurt his _feelings_.

“Seriously?”

There’s no tactful way to say ‘yes’. While his co-instructor is still searching for one anyway, Sar groans. It’s one part put upon and two parts pain.

“ _Kriff_ this schlubba. Ugh. For real?”

The Commander sets out to ruin a coronation and brings home a tyrant for a souvenir. Why not. They need to find that man a hobby.

Arcann. On Odessen. Not in chains or anything of the sort. It’s enough to make a man want to scream. Or weep. Or _kill something_ which is always a sensible thing to do and would be Sar’s go to reaction, only, apparently, he’s _not allowed_.

Slowly his battle readiness starts to ebb. It takes his sweet adrenalin with it and his _everything_ starts to hurt twice as badly.

_Hargrev's going to bend me over his desk and do unspeakable things to me. I’m so shafted._

This isn’t his day. And it started so well!

Sar half-heartedly shrugs to get the Jedi’s hands off of him. It doesn’t so much as budge them.

“Come on, I’m good, I got it, let me-“ He coughs, sharp pain lacing through his chest. His next breath rattles.

Timmns lets up immediately. “Are you alright? Was that- did you crack your ribs?”

The Sith huffs, which is a huge mistake and gives him just enough air to say, “ _No_.” before he has to cough again. He's hacking up blood by the time he’s done.

“Are you _sure_?” The Jedi’s voice laced with as much alarm as scepticism.

“Well, ‘cracked’ implies I didn’t break them, so _yes_.”

“… I’m getting you to medical. Now.”

“What? Are you kidding, I’m fine!”

“You’re not _fine_!”

“I’ll walk it off! We’re not wasting kolto on me being an idiot!”

 

… Sar doesn’t win that argument, no matter how good he is at self-medicating with mystical energies and raw fury.

It’s just not fair.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll leave it up to you to decide how much Arcann was hampered by a desire not to maim his Commander's people. That said, Sar isn't a pushover when the gloves come off and ruthlessness can make up for a lot.


End file.
